


Repair Me

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s06e12 Like a Virgin, Exasperated Dean Winchester, Gen, Hurt Bobby Singer, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Bobby Singer, Season/Series 06, Stubborn Men, no but seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: With Bobby still walking on eggshells around Sam, Sam decides to try and make things better between them as best he can. It might wind up killing the both of them, though.Reposted from LiveJournal.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 125





	Repair Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written off of phx69's prompt; originally posted February 2, 2012 in LiveJournal.

“Sam?” A pause. “Sammy?”  
  
Sam wouldn't have answered if it hadn't have been for the Sammy. Given how freaked Dean had been after Sam woke up two weeks ago, Sam tried to answer whenever Dean called. Even if all he wanted to do at the moment was just hide.  
  
“Here,” Sam called back softly, voice just loud enough that only someone nearby, like Dean, would've heard it. Footsteps moved in his direction before peeking into the small room he was currently sitting in. Dean's face showed immediately relief as soon as he caught sight of Sam, and he gave a genuine grin, which made Sam happy and sad at the same time, because c'mon, when was the last time his brother had really smiled? The fact that Dean was showing his relief visibly, though, just went to show how worried his brother got lately when it came to Sam.  
  
And that, Sam could do without. The last thing his brother needed was more gray hairs.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, disgustingly chipper like he'd just plowed through his favorite pie in one sitting, “I'm heading into town for a beer run. Want to come with?”  
  
 _Yes_ , his mind said immediately, even if the car still made him ache to drive in. A whole year and some of not sleeping was catching up to him, and while his soulless counterpart hadn't cared, it was Sam who was paying the price now.  
  
Soulless. And just like that, Sam shook his head. “Nah, I'll stay. Up here.”  
  
Dean's look softened into too much understanding. “You can't keep hiding up here, dude,” he said gently. “It'd do you some good to get out of the house for awhile.”  
  
Bobby's house. They'd been camped out ever since the dragon job, when Sam had admitted to not feeling well. Too much moving around, too much, too fast, and Sam had secretly wanted something familiar, something comforting, something more than some random hotel room. Maybe not so secretly, because Dean had pointed them in the direction of South Dakota without asking.  
  
Except the house wasn't comforting anymore. Not with Bobby trying to ignore him as best as the man could. Castiel had told Sam the truth, that his soulless self had tried to kill Bobby and had almost succeeded, but he'd thought that Bobby would've understood, that Bobby wouldn't have held it against a Sam who had his soul back, who felt sick at the thought of hurting Bobby.  
  
If the barely disguised looks of anger, wariness, and disgust were any indication, then Bobby wasn't planning on forgetting anytime soon, let alone forgiving.  
  
Dean sighed and crossed into the room, crouching down next to where Sam was seated. There were no chairs in the room, this small alcove where Bobby kept the books that wouldn't fit downstairs. Just floor space, if it hadn't been swallowed by stacks of books. There was one window that let in sunshine, big enough to hang curtains over, which was odd given the size of the room. Sam liked the space, always had. It was a sanctuary amidst a sanctuary, protected twice over.  
  
Now, it was just a sanctuary, no other buttress from the storm except this one.  
  
“Sam-”  
  
“He hates me,” Sam said, staring at his hands. They'd been playing with the edge of a book for about an hour now, and Sam honestly didn't even remember what he was reading. “God only knows he deserves to-”  
  
“He doesn't hate you, and no, he shouldn't,” Dean immediately argued. “That wasn't you, Sam, and he knows that.”  
  
Sam slowly lifted his head and threw Dean a weary, knowing look. “Okay, so he might not have put that together in his head yet,” Dean admitted. “But he doesn't hate you, Sam. He couldn't.”  
  
“I was surprised he let me in the house, Dean,” Sam said. Sam didn't deserve the man's forgiveness for nearly slicing his throat open. God, the very thought made Sam want to be sick. The man he'd always considered a surrogate father, and he'd nearly killed him. He shuddered and looked back down at his book. Something about the history of witchcraft in early America.  
  
Dean stood, grimacing as his knees popped. “If you want to stay, stay, but don't spend it up here alone, please,” Dean said, and Sam looked up then when his brother sounded almost as if he was pleading. Dean was biting his lower lip, looking two seconds away from tearing Sam away from his sanctuary and out into the rest of the house. His fingers actually twitched, and Dean finally shoved them into his pockets. “Promise me, Sammy.”  
  
“I promise,” Sam said with a sigh, setting the book aside. “I'll...figure out something else to do, all right?”  
  
“Good,” Dean said, putting on a blinding grin again. Sam snorted but shook his head with a fond smile. His brother, happy. It honestly didn't take much these days. “I'll be back in less than an hour.”  
  
“Bring back some chips,” Sam said, and Dean nodded and headed out. His boots made a clumping sound all the way downstairs, making it easy to track. Familiar sound in a familiar house, right down to the squeaks on the bottom two stairs.  
  
Sam sighed and pushed himself to standing, wincing as his leg burned and protested. He wasn't up to strength like he'd been before...everything. It made his head hurt to think about. Apparently, having your soul stuck back inside your body taxed on you. Though his leg felt wrong, like he'd twisted it or landed on it funny. He couldn't remember how he'd done it, so he treated it like any other injury, working it slowly back up to full health. It was all he could do, really, until it spasmed on him again. Actually, given his choices of what to do in the house, it was _all_ he could do. That or face Bobby.  
  
Sam glanced back down sorrowfully at the books, then turned and resolutely headed for the stairs to the main floor. He wasn't going to hide. Maybe...maybe sitting and talking with Bobby would help. Help them both: Bobby with his well-placed fear and loathing, Sam with his guilt and self-loathing. “Business as usual,” Sam muttered under his breath.  
  
He stepped down and made his way to the kitchen, where he could hear sounds. Bobby stood at the sink, washing a few of the dishes. His shoulders tensed as soon as Sam came in, and Sam resolutely pretended to ignore it. “Need help?” Sam offered.  
  
Bobby gave him an incredulous look before turning back to the dishes. Sam refused to let the sigh out and instead moved to the kitchen table, taking a seat next to all the phones. He drummed his fingers on the table, trying to find the right words to say. Bobby's back was like a stone wall, though, with no way to penetrate through to the man Sam missed. Because he did: he missed Bobby. Late research nights, early pancake mornings; Bobby might as well have adopted them the first summer their dad dropped them off at Bobby's. Bobby had grumbled but had watched out for them, taught them the fun things in life, like a good game of catch, how to go fishing, how to build the world's most complicated hot fudge sundae. Sam couldn't help smiling at the last memory: it'd been almost a foot tall by the time they'd finished creating it, and not a single drop of ice cream left by the time they were done eating it.  
  
“You mind?”  
  
Bobby's sharp tone pulled Sam from his thoughts. The man had turned to face him and was glaring at him now. “Uh, I...” Sam started, but had no idea of how to finish.  
  
“You're makin' me nervous, staring at me,” Bobby snapped, and there was the wary gaze, right on cue. He probably thought Sam was contemplating attacking him or something.  
  
Despite not having done anything wrong, Sam still found himself flushing with shame. “I wasn't, I mean...” God, was he twelve again, awkward and stammering out excuses that no one ever took?  
  
“Go find something else to do,” Bobby said, still glaring at him. “Somewhere _else_.” Anywhere that wasn't where Bobby was.  
  
Sam swallowed hard and pushed himself up from the table. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and that got a snort of incredulity from Bobby.  
  
“Sorry, yeah. Quit sayin' it and start showin' it.”  
  
Sam froze, stung by the out of character remark. God, how had Sam screwed it all up? _Again_? And it hadn't even really been Sam.  
  
 _A part of it was_ , came unbidden from Sam's mind, and Sam quickly darted out through the side door into the yard. The clouds overhead looked gray and dark, spelling nothing good on the horizon. Just as dark as his thoughts.  
  
If he sat anywhere near the house, Bobby would think he was trying to kill him again, probably. He made a face and walked further out into the yard. God but it was a mess. Cars everywhere, nothing cleaned up; Bobby hadn't done anything with the house or the yard in awhile. Even the roof was still a mess, and if it rained, something was going to get wet inside. Maybe even Bobby's alcove of books.  
  
 _Quit sayin' it and start showin' it._  
  
Sam's eyes immediately began searching around until he found what he was looking for. This, he could show. With a lighter feeling in his chest, Sam took off for the item, already making plans.  
  
Dean _had_ told him getting out of the house might do him some good, after all.  
  
  
  
Bobby slammed his soapy hand against the edge of the sink. “The hell's wrong with you, Singer?” he muttered. He hadn't meant it like that, he hadn't meant to sound that way. And the look on Sam's face...Bobby would've rather swallowed nails then watch Sam bolt for the door the way he did.  
  
Dean had even come down and warned him to play nice, and the day that a _Winchester_ had to tell him that was when it was long past time to do so. “He's hiding up there, trying to give you space,” Dean had told him. “Kid's got Hell crammed into his skull and...and god knows when we could lose him, so just let it go. Please, Bobby.”  
  
When a Winchester pleaded, it was long past time to pay attention, too.  
  
But god it was hard. It'd always been there, in the back of his head, that Sam was a big guy, but he'd always been on Sam's side of a fight. The ruthless part of Sam, the part that wasn't tempered by a soul, had not only fought against him, but done so on a busted leg. He'd been like a Terminator, with no kindness and warmth and _Sam_ in his eyes. If Dean hadn't shown up, Sam's empty face would've been the last thing Bobby saw before Death came for him.  
  
It wasn't a fuzzy feeling, all right? The kid had _scared_ him, goddammit, the kid who'd always ducked his head and blushed and smiled at the slightest hint of praise, the teen who'd stayed up long nights with him while they'd researched, the man who wore his heart on his sleeve and had only damned the world because he'd fought so hard to do the right thing.  
  
Now Sam's face was red with shame, hiding outside and out of the way, hating himself for things he couldn't even remember doing.  
  
“Hell,” Bobby muttered, shutting the sink off. He'd only been doing the dishes in order to be doing something when Sam came downstairs. Sam's offer to help would've immediately put the kid in close proximity, something Bobby couldn't take. It was just Sam, someone he knew, someone he'd helped raise for god's sake.  
  
Someone who'd tried to kill him barely a month ago.  
  
The phone rang, giving him a reason to dry his hands and think about something else. It wound up being his cell-phone, and Bobby fought back a groan when he saw Dean's name on the screen. “Yeah?”  
  
 _“You sound happy,”_ Dean commented dryly, his tone way too knowing. _“You and Sam playing a game?”_  
  
Oh he knew, all right. “Kid went outside; haven't seen him in probably twenty minutes,” Bobby confessed.  
  
 _“Bobby, look, just...treat it like a possession. You wouldn't hold a possession against him, would you?”_  
  
“Oh sure, fight fair why don't you,” Bobby grumbled, but the truth of the statement was too obvious to ignore. It had sort of been an anti-possession, in the end: Sam's body had been walking and talking on its own on Earth, while Sam's soul had been stuck with Lucifer. A sacrifice the kid had made to save them all.  
  
Balls. “I'll go find him,” Bobby told Dean. “You better bring back something good.”  
  
 _“Jim Beam and friends, along with a couple bags of chips, per Sam's request,”_ Dean promised. Knowing Dean, it was probably more like every type of chip available. Bobby's lips turned up at the thought. _“I'll be back in ten, maybe fifteen. Hopefully before it rains.”_  
  
It was pretty dark outside, now that Bobby really looked. Better to find Sam before the kid got soaked. He hung up and headed for the back door, eyes quickly taking in the yard. Nothing seemed out of place, and the still quiet only made the beginnings of worry stir in his gut. He was about to call out for Sam when a small, odd noise caught his attention. It echoed again around him, making him turn in bewilderment to find it. It sounded like a pounding sound, except there was a scraping of metal, too. Bobby quickly moved around the house to the side, where he could best say it was coming from.  
  
His longest ladder was propped against the house, leading all the way up to the roof. He took a few steps away from the house and spotted wild, brown hair up on top, halfway between the chimney and the edge.  
  
The hell was the kid doing on the _roof_? “Sam,” Bobby called, but a sudden cold breeze took his words away. It was bound to start raining any time, and Sam needed to get off the roof fast.  
  
Bobby quickly started up the ladder, more curious than anything else as to what Sam was doing up there. Two stories was a long way up, and his legs were burning by the time he reached the top. It was a careful step off onto the roof, hand catching the top of the chimney to keep himself upright, before he could look around and see what Sam was doing.  
  
Sam was in the middle of the front section, hammering down a flat piece of spare metal over what Bobby knew was one of the bigger holes in the roof. He was being meticulous about it, making certain it was down firm and good before pounding the plate up flat against the rest of the roof, then securing the edges to keep it down. He pounded along the sides to keep the moisture out, never once looking up. All he had was a small rope, one of Bobby's old coils, wrapped around his waist and attached to the chimney to keep him from going over. It'd be nothing more than a quick fix, but enough to keep out the rain that Sam apparently could see coming.  
  
He could barely see the kid's face beneath his hair, but he knew Sam would have the same determined look on his face that he did about everything else. Because that was just what Sam did. Because Bobby had told him to show he was sorry instead of saying it, and Sam had decided that fixing the roof, the one that had needed repairing for two or so years now, was how he could do that.  
  
Bobby felt the guilt settle into his gut hard and uneasy. He could be just as big an idiot as the two of the brothers could sometime. “Sam,” he called, stepping down to the front side of the roof.  
  
It happened fast. Sam startled at his sudden presence and turned fast, then cried out, one of his legs immediately jerking out from under him. He slid fast down the roof, the rope catching him at just the last minute with lower half hanging over the edge of the roof. Sam twisted and grasped at the rope, the roof, anything as he hung, chest pressed hard against the edge of the roof.  
  
“Hang on,” Bobby ordered, heart pounding in his chest. Jesus, that rope wasn't going to hold for much longer. “I'm comin', Sam.”  
  
And that was, of course, when the rain started to fall.  
  
  
  
Oh god it hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_. His leg wouldn't stop spasming, the traitor that hadn't kept him upright when Bobby had surprised him. The rope had been a bad choice, now that Sam thought about it. He should've gone with the thicker one after all. It would've taken more time to get down, but it would've held him better.  
  
Better than this one that looked like it was fraying at the edges near the chimney.  
  
Sam reached out for the roof tiles instead of the rope, not daring to put any more weight on the thin strands than he already had. The edge of the roof was hard against his ribs and he kicked helplessly, anything to try and give him momentum to get back onto the roof. But the tiles were getting slick from the rain and his legs weren't pulling him up enough, leaving him well and truly stuck.  
  
Bobby was coming down the roof, slowly and carefully, one small step away from going over himself. “Bobby, no,” Sam told him over the rain. His fingers slid over the slick tiles like one smooth surface, nothing to grab onto. God knew how much friction two feet would have. “Get back to the ladder-”  
  
“Don't you give me orders, you idjit,” Bobby growled, crouching down close to Sam. He pushed his feet against the roof as if to climb back up, then extended his hand. Sam tried to get his elbow up onto the roof to push himself up, and finally his hand caught Bobby's. A wave of relief swept over him at the firm grasp wrapped around his hand, fingers catching around his wrist.  
  
The rope suddenly snapped, leaving Bobby with all of Sam's weight. Sam gasped as he hurtled down past the edge of the roof only to be caught by the tight grip on his hand and wrist. He glanced up to find Bobby somehow, _somehow_ still holding on and not falling off himself. “Hang on,” Bobby started, only for a few tiles beneath his feet to suddenly slide off, nearly missing Sam's head. Bobby cursed and pulled himself back up, but only barely.  
  
They were both going to go over. Sam was going to get Bobby killed this time for sure. God knew what had possessed the older man to come up onto the roof with him, but Sam knew one thing for certain: he wasn't going to be the reason Bobby Singer died.  
  
 _Quit sayin' it and start showin' it._  
  
“Let go,” he said softly, causing Bobby's head to snap up.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Let go,” Sam said louder, blinking rapidly to keep the raindrops out of his eyes. It wasn't a torrential downpour yet, but it was coming fast enough that any minute now, Sam was going to pull Bobby over. The only way to keep Bobby safe was to have him let go, to let Sam fall.  
  
Bobby stared at him incredulously, like Sam was a freak of nature, and it made Sam's stomach turn. This freak of nature wasn't going to get Bobby killed. “I'm gonna pull you over if you don't,” Sam yelled, trying to pull his hand free. “Let go!”  
  
The hand on his wrist only tightened further, and Sam suddenly found his other hand, the one that had been clinging to the edge of the roof, in an equally tight hold. “Not a chance,” Bobby said, and when Sam looked up, there was nothing of the wariness or the anger in Bobby's eyes. Just hard determination and something that looked suspiciously like the emotion in Bobby's eyes when Sam had said goodbye a year and a half ago. Before Lucifer had taken him.  
  
Sam swallowed hard, suddenly gasping for air and not knowing why. “Bobby-”  
  
“I ain't lettin' go, Sam,” Bobby said firmly, pulling at Sam's hands. “Not when we just got you back, kid.”  
  
The force of the pulling burned all the way through his arms, but it was a barely factored pain compared to the words that were healing something inside of Sam. It felt like Bobby was actually looking at him for the first time since he'd woken up, looking at him and seeing Sam. It felt good.  
  
And then more tiles came down, with Bobby slipping and landing on his hip, barely keeping them both up. God, Sam _was_ going to pull them both down at this rate. “Bobby-”  
  
A car door slammed below. “SAM!” Dean shouted from somewhere beneath them, sounding every part the panicked and freaked out big brother.  
  
“Second floor, alcove window, _hurry_!” Bobby yelled. Sam dared to look down and suddenly realized how high up they were. It was a long, long way down, and Sam felt his stomach turn for a completely different reason. His arms were burning, his leg was still spasming, and god only knew how Bobby felt, and there were more tiles threatening to cascade down-  
  
Hands caught him by the knees, startling him. “I got you,” Dean called from much closer, pulling him towards the house. “Bobby, I got him!”  
  
Bobby didn't let go. “Easy down,” he said instead, lowering himself further to the roof to bring Sam closer to the window. Looking down a little, Sam could see Dean's arms wrapped around his legs, pulling him into a small window he knew well. He could feel the warmth of the house in his legs now, and he knew he could make it inside just fine.  
  
He glanced up at Bobby. “On three?” he said.  
  
In response, Bobby began to swing. On the third swing he let go, sending Sam forward towards the window. He hit the bottom of the window with the top of his legs, only to have Dean immediately pull him inside. He hit the ground harder than he'd hit the window, and both brothers stopped and panted.  
  
“Bobby,” Sam managed to gasp out, and Dean hauled Sam to his feet before racing for the stairs. Sam's heart was going overtime in his chest, the adrenaline from falling only adding to his fear that even without Sam pulling him down, Bobby might've been too far down to pull himself back up. He hit the back door and threw it open, only to stop as Bobby came across the yard.  
  
“Easier to get up than down with one person,” Bobby told him, and Sam barked out a laugh, running a shaky, wet hand through his soaked hair. He'd nearly gotten them both killed, trying to fix the damn roof, and hadn't gotten anything accomplished-  
  
And then suddenly Bobby's arms were wrapped around him, freezing him to the spot. “Didn't need to fix the damn roof,” Bobby told him gruffly, but Sam got what he was trying to say underneath it all. He tentatively hugged back, tightening his grip when Bobby grasped him harder.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Dean mumbled, heading past them to where the Impala was still running, parked haphazardly in the front of the house. “I _definitely_ need a goddamn drink now.”  
  
Sam chuckled and let go to watch Dean trudge off to the car. “I could use one too, thanks,” Bobby called out after him, but merely grinned when Dean threw him the bird. “You?” he asked Sam.  
  
“Yeah, I could,” Sam agreed. Bobby was still meeting his gaze and grinning, and it felt _good_ , like the piece to the puzzle he'd been missing was put in its spot.  
  
  
  
It felt good to have his boys both together where they belonged. It felt good to know they were _his_ boys again. Sam shaking and cold and wet beside him looking more hopeful and happy than Bobby would've imagined someone could look given that he'd almost fallen off the top of Bobby's house.  
  
It'd been close. Bobby had almost lost his grip on Sam too many times to count. The rain had made his grasp slippery, and the tiles on the roof had caved under the pressure of his feet. He'd almost lost Sam, and the irony of Dean's statement, that they could lose Sam at any time, was still being bounced around his mind.  
  
Nothing had compared to Bobby's heart nearly stopping when Sam had told him to let go. The kid had looked up at him through wet bangs and told him to just _let go_ , like it was the only option. Maybe it had been, in Sam's mind. It never would've happened, anyway, even if he'd hated Sam's guts.  
  
But when he'd looked at Sam, all he'd seen was the kid who'd come to him at ten, crying because he'd accidentally ripped out a page from Bobby's book. The teen who'd hesitantly asked the “hypothetical” question that, if Bobby had had kids, if he would've let them go off to college. The man who'd hugged him tight before giving himself over to the Devil in order to save the world.  
  
All he'd seen was _Sam_ , the kid who would rather die than get him hurt. And in that moment, Bobby knew that the man who'd tried to kill him hadn't really been Sam. It hadn't even been the ruthless hunter part of Sam. No, it'd been the animal instinct part of Sam who'd tried to get out of being inflicted with pain, with Hell. And he knew that part of Sam was forever gone now. They had Sam back, and god help him, he was going to fight alongside Dean to keep the kid there with them.  
  
So yeah, it felt damn good to have things back where they belonged. It still felt good a few hours later as they munched through ten different bags of chips, with Dean bitching about all the gray hairs Sam had managed to give him in the space of an afternoon. Bobby listened to them both as he went upstairs to check on the alcove window, to make sure it was fastened correctly. When he realized it was still raining out, he glanced up at the ceiling and grinned.  
  
He came back downstairs to where Dean was outright _pouting_ and counting the hairs on his head. “You need any hair dye, princess?” he asked, making Dean stop what he was doing and glare at him.  
  
“Hey, I wouldn't be doing this if I hadn't needed to rescue two people from falling off a _roof_. The hell were you up there for, anyway?”  
  
Sam hesitated, giving Bobby his chance to talk first. “Fixed the main problem on the roof,” Bobby said, making Sam turn in surprise. “Patched up the big holes that were leaking into the second story. Floor's dry upstairs, not a drop of water to be seen.”  
  
Sam slowly began to smile. Dean frowned at the both of them before turning back to the bottle of whiskey on the table. “Next time you guys decide to play Tim Allen, warn me, would you?”  
  
Bobby glanced at Sam, and Sam grinned before casually tossing out. “I thought we did, or was my hanging off not enough of a warning?”  
  
Dean's sputtering was made better by having Sam there to share it with.  
  
END


End file.
